


Sails in the Night Sky

by HyperLittleNori (Shiguresan)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe - Circus, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Inspired by The Greatest Showman film, M/M, Prince Derek Hale, Romance, Royal Derek Hale, Royalty AU, Trapeze Artist Stiles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-15
Updated: 2018-12-15
Packaged: 2019-09-19 13:46:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17002800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shiguresan/pseuds/HyperLittleNori
Summary: The tent’s canopy looked like sails in the night sky, and despite his family’s earlier protests, Derek felt himself drawn toward them like a ship out to sea...The momentum of his movements sent him swooping forward like a gull across the waves. The ocean of people below gasped but were otherwise struck silent with awe. The bird glittered as he swung forward, glitter catching across his cheekbones and long fingers that stretched out with his arms, urging his impetus further. The swing carried his flight right up to where Derek was standing, as speechless as the people below. When their gazes met, Derek saw the deep amber eyes reflecting the light, as dazzling as the glitter that painted their edges.





	Sails in the Night Sky

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Welsh_Woman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Welsh_Woman/gifts).



> To both the admin and my giftee Welsh_Woman (welshwoman1988 on Tumblr), I doubled the word limit and I am so sorry. My words just ran with me and there was so much I wanted to fit in. I never have been able to write short one-shots and this was my first secret santa exchange EVER and I just got so excited. You said you liked Royalty AUs and I saw that you’d liked an image of wolf Derek snuggling with Stiles on a bed on your Tumblr and somehow that turned into this – I don’t even know how to be honest. I really wanted to make this even longer and fit even more in so I’m amazed I’ve managed to reign it in this much ^__^; I could’ve gone on ‘til next Christmas I was enjoying myself so much, so, regardless I hope you enjoy your gift :D

 The biting chill of oncoming winter was brutal in the dark of night, obvious even through Derek’s warm, lined coat. He tipped his head skyward, the stars hidden from view by a thick covering of dark clouds. Rain was coming.

 

 The echoes of the argument he’d left behind in the castle walls still filled his head like a thunderstorm. His ears still rang with his uncle’s tactless insistence that he not waste his time anymore wallowing in the peasantry, Laura’s halting, stalwart defence of both Derek and the less fortune. Then, of course, there was his mother’s quiet, warning that cut through it all with the sharpness of lightning.

 

  _“If you hate it so much then have them moved!”_ he’d snapped in the end, half afraid his mother or uncle would do exactly that. Even so, he’d surprised his family with his vehemence, because he’d always merely done as he was told, until that point at least. Hales ruled beside their siblings, with their partners in life having very little say in affairs of state, though before he’d died, his father had done his part for the public. Still, Derek was due to rule alongside his sisters and he had always been the more submissive of his fiery family members, but nothing had ever filled him with fire the way this had.

 

  Derek sighed as he continued on, turning his collar up against the cold and the echoes of his mother’s raised voice that still hummed in his ears. She managed to make him feel like an errant child even as the sounds of applause, the cries of awe and delight mixed with those of aversion in the night.

 

 Nobody had ever seen a ‘circus’ before, never even heard of anything like it. It was new and exciting and the talk of the kingdom but also filled the more reserved, those that fought change, with bitter resentment. Derek knew Peter’s reason for stopping him from working his way down here night after night was a simple factor of control. His mother’s reasons, however, were more complicated.

 

 He’d originally assumed her protests to the circus stemmed from the same resistance to change as a lot of the others, but earlier that night, when tempers had flared, his mother had simply replied calmly, _“they are good people, they take care of their animals and each other and they make their money, little of it that they do, in happiness. It’s a more honest trade than most.”_ Even so, she’d levelled him with that sad, knowing stare and added, _“But my boy, if you associate with what the people consider abnormal, they will soon realise that you aren’t their variety of normal either.”_

Derek approached the white tent and thought of Stilinski. The showman had been born in the capital with little money, had met his wife in a foreign land and always dreamt of bringing the life he’d built with her back to the place he was born. He’d dreamt of making it work here, making a home where everyone was welcome, where everyone could fit. Derek only wished the kingdom that was his birthright could be the same.

 

 The familiar sounds and smells, the sight of the large white peaked tent just off the main road out of the capital lifted him as they greeted him, as they’d done every night in the last few months.

 

 The tent’s canopy looked like sails in the night sky, and despite his family’s earlier protests, Derek felt himself drawn toward them like a ship out to sea.

 

*

 

 The noise was as immense inside the tent as ever. The smells of sweat and snacks, of an overindulgence of alcohol from the less savoury onlookers, the ones that brought the bitter smell of intolerance to the mix, tested his control. He’d been trained since his youth to cope with the myriad of smells and sights and sounds a crowd carried, they all had and so after a grimace it all settled and he edged around the back of the tent, where he could see a set of crudely constructed stairs spiralling round the perimeter, up and round to some platforms above.

 

Derek ducked under the rope blocking off the stairway and climbed. The crowd below was so thick that he hadn’t been able to even hope to glimpse the large, sandy ring that he now saw more clearly the more he climbed.

 

 A girl with beautiful red hair tied at the top of her head spun in the centre, fire twirling from the batons in her grasp and she beamed like something out of a fairytale, as beautiful and dangerous as the fire she bent to her will. She twirled it expertly, swinging it around herself and dancing over the swirling rope of fire her equally beautiful partner wielded like a deadly, flaming version of the skipping ropes the children of the court played with. Together, she and the dark haired woman kept the audience on the edges of their seats.

 

 He’d never seen anything like this until the first night he’d stepped in here. He’d never seen people that moved the way they did, he’d never seen this kind of setup. The way the audience howled and clapped with every risk they took, every sinuous movement suggested it wasn’t just a limit of his position either, none of them had seen this before, not even at the heart of the capital.

 

 Derek reached the top of the stairway just as they took their final bows to the applause of the majority. He braced himself with one arm against the supporting beam of the tent, the tall mast of the ship of dreams that lay before him, as the two performers took their leave of the ring and a wave of silence cut across the crowd. He waited, then sure enough, a bright light swung up to point at the far side of the tent, where there was a platform twinned to the high crow’s nest that Derek was on.

 

 His vision was better than that of probably any of the people below. From where he stood, with the mobile spotlight on the figure on the opposite platform, Derek saw him clearly. There was only a split second from the light hitting him, to his reaction but it all moved in slow motion thereafter. Long legs hooked over the bar suspended from above and the lithe body swung round, upside down, arching like a taut bow. The momentum of his movements sent him swooping forward like a gull across the waves. The ocean of people below gasped but were otherwise struck silent with awe.

 

 The bird glittered as he swung forward, glitter catching across his cheekbones and long fingers that stretched out with his arms, urging his impetus further. The swing carried his flight right up to where Derek was standing, as speechless as the people below. When their gazes met, Derek saw the deep amber eyes reflecting the light, as dazzling as the glitter that painted their edges.

 

 Time stood still, just as it had that first night, the young man was always so surprised to see him return despite the fact that he always promised to. Then the momentum of his swing, the movement of his flight carried him back. He twisted on the bar like it was effortless, long limbs speckled with moles that drew Derek’s gaze along the taut, lean muscle there. His breath caught and his mouth went try with every swooping turn of limb.

 

 He didn’t perform every night and he didn’t cut away to meet with Derek every night either. Derek wondered what it said about him that the young man’s flight and their sarcastic conversations allowed his head to feel clearer than had been all these years. There was always a signal, if he landed on the platform Derek was on, he had time to escape with Derek, if not, he landed on the opposite side.  

 

 Applause ripped through the tense silence like a thousand waves crashing against the cliff face and Derek took a step back as the man dismounted before him, taking a bow before the spotlight on him drifted away. Derek blinked at the sudden change in light.

 

 The same dark kohl and golden brown glitter painted those eyes as every night. The pale glitter that lay like stars across his cheekbones glistened, mystically untouched by the sweat beading from his hair and across his throat into the deep ‘v’ of his nearly translucent shirt. His chest was heaving, his glitter-tinted cheeks flushed with exertion but he smiled as he panted, “you’re not really meant to be up here, you know?” It was the same teasing, slightly breathless rebuke and didn’t sound at all displeased. On the contrary, the young man studied him carefully, tilting his head as the lights focussed back again on the ring below and the next act ensuing.

 

 “I thought not,” Derek agreed softly, an edge of amusement to his words, “but then I assumed someone would’ve removed me if they were so concerned.”

 

  The man’s lips quirked in a devastatingly charming way. “I asked dad to let you be. You must be growing on him,” he revealed, before he tipped his head on his way passed, gesturing for Derek to follow him.

 

 The living quarters of the performers were to the rear of the grand tent, a cluster of worn but well cared for wooden caravans. They were far enough from the animal enclosures on the opposite side for the smell to pale in comparison to the aroma of cooking food and subtle perfumes wafting from the other open, empty caravans, left open to facilitate the comings and goings of the other performers.

 

 He hesitated when the young man climbed into one that smelled only of him, watched as he perched on the stool squeezed between a dressing table and a mussed, sweet smelling bed. He usually entertained Derek’s presence as he tended the animal pens or did some other chores, or beguiled Derek with sarcastic wit just outside the noise of the big tent. He’d never led him back here before. The intimacy of seeing the place he slept, raised in the sheltered way Derek was, made him swallow thickly.

 

 Those piercing amber eyes watched his reflection as he shrugged off the near translucent fabric of his shirt, damp with sweat. He tipped some oil that smelled of almonds onto a clean cloth and began swiping the glittering paint from his body. It had glistened like diamonds embedded in his skin under the light of the tent, but now as the man wiped it away from his chest first, then the column of his throat, all Derek could do was stare at the flesh the faux glamour had covered. Flawless, honey coloured and speckled with moles here and there that reached up across his neck, jaw and cheekbones.

 

 “You’re amazing,” Derek managed at last, finding his voice, thick with awe. The breathy compliment was far away from their usual banter.

 

 The man at the table gave him a wistful look. “Well, that’s a hell of a lot more pronounceable than my given name,” he said. His voice wasn’t accented in any particular way, which Derek thought peculiar of people that were clearly travellers when he’d first met him.

 

 “You’re still not going to tell me your real name, are you?”

 

 Again, the same wistful smile. “You’re awfully persistent with that. Usually people need to know, why the trapeze? Why such death-defying stunts? Why risk your life for so little financial gain?”

 

Derek frowned, unsure if the young man truly meant ‘people’ or other men or women he’d led back to his caravan just like this. The thought made his stomach squirm, when for months he’d felt himself special for sharing just an hour of conversation with the young man he only knew as _Stiles_ each night. “I thought that was obvious. You love it.”

 

 That stilled Stiles’s constant, almost frenetic movement. The glittering paint around his eyes had been wiped away with the rest now, leaving only a few rogue speckles of starlight behind, blending perfectly with the moles on one side of his face, probably only visible to Derek’s gaze.

 

 “It’s my life,” Stiles said seriously, with the tone of a man slightly stunned by Derek’s answer. “Everyone needs the chance to smile these days, not only the rich.”

 

 Derek nodded, thinking of the homeless that flocked the streets of the capital not far from here. The ‘circus’ as the people were calling it, it was all about the lights and the show in the tent but back here, there was a rundown comfort of home and people barely getting by. They weren’t making a fortune, despite the splendour they delivered night after night.

 

 “You told me your mother taught you before she died?” Derek asked, moistening his dry lips. Even from the slight distance the steps up into the caravan and the door put between them, he saw the man’s eyes, shining with the glow of the twin lanterns there, follow the path of his tongue across his mouth.

 

 “Yeah, she was a natural, she was the talent that built us up from nothing, you know?” he offered easily, face bright as he said it. Right from the start it had been clear that Stiles loved talking about her. “She came from a place far from here, my father met her when he fought in the wars. She taught him. They taught me.”

 

 Derek thought of Stilinski, the man in richly coloured tailcoats and nodded in agreement. Stilinski had performed with his son after his mother died, but he’d grown older and so when his father-in-law died he’d taken his place as show-master. The man had a smile that crinkled at the corners of his eyes and mouth and it was an expression you couldn’t help but return. It was the same light, the same vibrance of life that burned so bright in Stiles. The same light that burned in all of the people behind the circus, in all people who enjoyed what they did with all they had.

 

 “Tell me your real name?” Derek asked again, still feeling a little giddy, wondering if it was the convergence of so many scents in one place or just the man before him. He was so close within his reach and half-naked and so, so beautiful and honest and real, magnanimous like none of the people of privilege his uncle and mother had tried to urge him to court.

 

 Right from the first time Derek had let repression, boredom and inquisitiveness call him into the tent and he’d seen the way Stiles moved, right from the first time their eyes had locked he’d felt drawn in by him. He’d felt drawn in by the sight of a life that burned so bright regardless of the limitations the rest of the world tried to place on him, something so rare in the world he’d grown up in

 

 “What would you do with it?” Stiles asked, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

 

 Derek frowned, brows drawing together and Stiles swivelled on his stool. “Call you by your name.”

 

 “Like a secret promise?” The twinkle flared like fire, giving Derek a brief view into this man’s beautiful soul. “Surely ‘Stiles’ is enough? Everyone else calls me that. Or do you have another pet name for me in your head?”

 

 Derek exhaled in annoyance through his nose, dragging his hand across the back of his neck. “I’m calling you a little prick, right now.” His words startled a laugh out of Stiles that completely changed his face, mouth wide with surprised joy. His entire body jerked with it in a way so free and uninhibited by society’s rules. It was perfect.

 

 “You have a mouth, Prince Hale,” he said approvingly, laughter still in his eyes.

 

 Derek jerked as if he’d been slapped, because in all the times they’d spoken and yes, even laughed together, all the times Derek had helped him haul water or muck out the animal pens, he’d never once used that title.

 

 “You…you know?” he asked, feeling as if the ground had opened up beneath his feet, the sails torn from his ship as it was cast out to sea.

 

 Stiles’s laughter faded into a resigned smile then and the man reached for the plain robe off the mussed bedding and pulled it on. “I know who you are. My father told me right from the first night you came here,” he said as he tied the belt around his robe, fingers lingering on it, as if he needed to keep them busy left they betray him. He had such strong, long, expressive hands. “You were very determined not to tell me yourself.”

 

 Derek set his jaw. “I just…” He didn’t know what to say. He’d been so tired, so very tired of having expectations pressed on him, of having every aspect of his life dictated to him, albeit by a well-intentioned mother and uncle. He’d been tired of it all but when he’d seen Stiles, when he’d glimpsed his life here, it had felt like an escape. No, more than that.

 

 “You shouldn’t be here,” Stiles added with quiet reluctance. “You shouldn’t come back, Derek.”

 

 Derek flinched. “Stiles,” he tried, the odd nickname full of such earnest longing for him to understand. “If you’ve always known what I am then–”

 

 “I always knew what you were, but I didn’t know _who_ you were,” Stiles argued, storming forward to the doorway of the caravan. He glared down at Derek, more glorious in his rage than any of the mild-mannered, sweet tempered ladies and gentlemen of the court he’d encountered.

 

 “I kept thinking, every time I saw you would be the time you admitted it, trusted me enough and it never happened.” His face held barely concealed anguish and Derek ached for putting it there. Stiles shook his hand, dragging his fingers through his sweat-dampened hair. “What the hell am I to you, Derek?” he asked, “just some entertaining diversion until you grow up and accept your responsibilities and whatever partner your mother finds you?”

 

 “That’s not it,” Derek all-but snarled, because the inch of truth in that, at least the part about accepting responsibility burned.

 

 Everyone here had responsibilities to the show, to each other, and if one of them didn’t step up it would fall apart. He wondered how he must look to Stiles, to be shirking his responsibilities when everyone here worked so damn hard for so little. But even so, it hadn’t been about hiding anything from Stiles, it’d been about hiding _himself_ from that world, because he was terrified, because the Derek in that world was pathetic and lost and when he was with Stiles, he felt strong. 

 

 “I can’t be your sordid secret, Derek,” Stiles murmured, voice rough around the edges with pain, his eyes shining in the light the lanterns strung between the caravans offered. “I can’t be some _mistress_ you come back to when your _real_ life gets too hard and you want an amusing diversion.”

 

 Derek’s head snapped back to him so quickly his neck protested. “Then why did you ask that I be allowed to stay?” he demanded heatedly. “Why invite me back here to the place you sleep if you have so little faith in me?”

 

 “Because I hoped you were different!” Stiles snarled like a cornered wolf, eyes ablaze and his voice broke a little as he added, “Because I _wanted_ you to be different. Because no one has _ever_ looked at me the way you did that first night, the way you are right now. There’s never been a connection like that, at least not for me.”

 

 “Not for me either,” Derek replied, his voice a softer counterpart to Stiles’s hurt rage, so gentle that Stiles’s fire seemed to simmer out a little.

 

 Derek stepped forward, gripping the small balustrade and levering himself up to stand on the steps. There was a hairsbreadth between them and his hand covered Stiles’s on the doorframe. He could _taste_ Stiles’s breath on his lips and see every fleck of brown, amber and whisky in Stiles’s eyes.

 

 “That’s why I’m here,” Derek continued tenderly. “Yes, my life is…complicated. It drives me insane most days but that doesn’t change that I’m here because of you, not because of that.”

 

 Because they had a connection.

 

 Stiles searched his eyes and his fingers twitched under Derek’s on the wooden frame. There was so little air between them that Derek felt light-headed from the lack of air until Stiles drew back. He looked suddenly tired as he slumped onto the edge of his bed, avoiding Derek’s gaze.

 

 “That’s why I showed you,” Stiles almost whispered, “showed you me without the glitter and the spotlight, just me. Nothing else. I wanted you to see that and come back anyway.” He risked a look at Derek out of the corner of his eye. “I wanted the connection to be real.” With a sigh and a little, self-deprecating smile he added, “my mother used to say that we travelled the world and they all applauded, but when the spotlight went out we were still foreigners, _different_ , unwelcome strangers once the laughter faded.”

 

 He sounded so lonely for a man that said that bringing happiness to others, regardless of social standing was all he wanted in life. But just as Derek had his secrets, Stiles had one other than his birth name. It appeared that Stiles wanted a home, one where he belonged. Derek ached to share that dream with him.

 

 Derek did something he’d never done in all his life except for his mother and uncle, something society would gasp in dismay at the sight of and he didn’t give a shit. He lowered himself to his knees before Stiles and captured his strong hands in his own, drawing those doe eyes to him before reaching up to cup his cheek. He dragged his thumb across the moles there and drank in his heat. “I’ve never met anyone like you before,” he confessed.

 

 Stiles had travelled the world, had seen so much and for all his poverty, he was rich in ways the Hale family could only ever hope to be.

 

 “I’ve never seen anyone who looks at the world the way you do. You see all men equal, you see the good in everyone in spite of all the ugliness you’ve seen across the world. You’re incredible.” Because he _knew_ Stiles had heard the slurs and jibes of those that protested their presence here, detested the ‘unnatural circus’ that no one had ever seen the like of before. He wasn’t fool enough to think that worldview was something Stiles had only encountered here.

 

 Stiles reached back for him, cupping the back of his head and stroking his fingers through his hair before gripping tight, as if he were afraid to let him go and find out he wasn’t real. “You belong in another world, Derek.”

 

 Derek wanted to sink into him until there was no telling them apart from one other, wanted to absorb everything Stiles was. “Maybe we can find a way to make a new one.”

 

 Stiles let out a little laugh even as his eyes glistened. “I must be insane to believe you.” His grip tightened on Derek’s hair and he tugged him in so that their foreheads pressed together. “But God help me I want to...”

 

 Derek _felt_ as shaky as Stiles sounded, his fingers trembling as they slid down to cup Stiles’s jaw, his warm, soft throat and the pulse thudding rapidly with excitement within. The longing Derek felt twinned within his own veins. He dragged his nose across Stiles’s cheekbone, inhaling softly at the almond, sweat, warmth, grassy scent that was Stiles before letting their mouths brush.

 

 His stomach tightened and then melted at the contact, at the little hitch in Stiles’s breath, lips melding together soft and a little slick with the oil Stiles had used to clean his skin. Derek groaned when Stiles’s tongue touched his own like a question and sank into him, his thumb tracing Stiles’s chin and tugging gently so that he could taste him deeper.

 

 Stiles’s free hand smoothed down Derek’s torso between the narrow space between them, in constant motion as if he wanted to map every inch of Derek but didn’t know where to start and was worried if he didn’t now, he never would. It was a frenetic greed and Derek kissed him deeper for it, to let him know he felt the same. It was a little clumsy, perfect, real, their noses bumping in their urgency to taste each other.

 

 Derek’s hands slid down Stiles’s throat to his shoulder, the gentle movement smoothing Stiles’s robe off his shoulders. It pooled beneath them when Derek drew back and Stiles followed, his fingers aiding Derek’s on the ornate clasps of his cloak and tunic as they kissed, more urgently with every inch of skin revealed.

 

 Stiles clumsily peeled away the tights he wore to perform, and when Derek stood back off the bed to remove his own clothing in the narrow galley between it, the clothes rail and dressing table, Stiles swiped the door shut. He gave Derek a wry smile when he tugged away the constricting undergarment he wore to hold him in place when he performed and reached for Derek almost instantaneously. They fell clumsily to the bed in a mess of limbs that rocked the caravan.

 

 Stiles laughed softly, the sound stifled by Derek’s mouth. Derek answered it in kind, his amusement, arousal and affection mingling into a grumbling laugh growl that caught in his throat. It was a desperate, inelegant thing between them, urgent with need to touch everywhere and drink in every inch of heat.

 

 Derek’s stubble raised a red flush over every freckle and mole and Stiles’s strong hands held onto Derek’s neck and shoulders so tight Derek felt his nails dig in. For all that, it was a slow build. A slow dance ending in them mostly grinding together, clasped too close, limbs locked together too tight with Stiles’s sheets pulled over them to protect them from the encroaching chill.

 

 It was the best night of Derek’s life.

 

 “Mieczyslaw,” Stiles breathed softly against the hollow of his jaw from where they were wrapped around each other in the sticky afterglow. He had one arm hooked around Derek’s shoulder while Derek’s curved around him, dragging affectionately through his hair.

 

 “Hmm?” Derek asked, blinking his sated, sleepy eyes open.

 

 “Mieczyslaw, that’s the name my parents gave me. It was my grandfather’s name. But there was two of us, so I was always Stiles and when he and my mother died…” Stiles shrugged but Derek understood, knew what it meant to have that name whispered into his skin like a kiss, like the greatest secret on earth. It was, Derek realised, to someone like Stiles who people judged at face value, someone who never let anyone in close enough to see, who had so little. This was the greatest thing he could give.

 

 Derek pressed his lips to Stiles’s again, unable to find the words to show how much that meant to him. He felt as if the clouds had been swept aside by the whirlwind of Stiles’s life, humbled and thinking clearly for the first time.

 

 It was like an awakening.

 

 His home had all the creature comforts a man could long for. It had fine linens, servants to run hot baths with opulent oils, food and drink to heat his belly, but he’d never felt as warm as he did now, naked under a mountain of sheets with Stiles, watching the light of the still slightly swinging lamps paint his face with their glow.

 

 He looked into Stiles’s eyes when their lips parted and felt affection so fervent it made him shaky with it. He felt admiration and knowledge that instilled him with shame, because all this time he’d felt trapped in his privileged life and Stiles and his makeshift family were knee-deep in heartache, struggling every day and never asking for more. While Derek had responsibilities at home, he also had love and security and a family who only wanted the best for him, for the world, even if they had a peculiar way of going about it sometimes.

 

 He arguably had everything and Stiles and his family had nothing and yet they were happy. They wanted only to make others smile. Derek had been the instrument in his own misery before now, letting his mother and uncle manage him. He’d once believed that all there was to stepping up to his role was politics, unwanted opulent balls and sufferance. But seeing the magic these people created from nothing but skill made him realise what he could do with everything he had, what he _wanted_ to do, because of Stiles.

 

 “So how do we start?” Stiles murmured against his jaw.

 

 “Hmm?”

 

 “Reshaping the world, so that everyone has a place, so that we have a place together, where do we start with that?”

 

 Derek stroked his hair thoughtfully. “I talk to my mother and uncle.”

 

 Stiles tensed in his arms before pushing up onto his elbows. “And if they tell you to stay away?” he asked guardedly.

 

 Derek studied him carefully, before glancing around the caravan. “Then I still have two sisters that can rule without me.”

 

 Stiles looked as if he might protest for a moment, but Derek knew him well enough by now to know he never wasted time with half-hearted platitudes or anything other than what he truly felt or thought. He smiled and drew Derek in with fingers behind his jaw. “I think I’ve inspired a rebellious streak in you,” he murmured against Derek’s lips, his own mouth a little red with stubble burn.

 

 Derek snorted. “You just gave me a reason to grow a backbone,” he said as he bore him back to the sheets.

 

 

 “I have to tell you something,” Derek murmured against his belly when the world outside had grown quiet, the circus fast asleep.

 

 Stiles stroked his hair, smoothing the mess of it their lovemaking had made behind his ears in a way that was so relaxing, so comforting Derek thought he might melt around him like a puddle.

 

 “You don’t have like a secret wife or husband or harem do you?” Stiles asked sleepily and Derek nipped at the tight, lean muscles of his abdomen.

 

 “I have to tell you something, about me, about my family but it’s not just my secret to tell.” He tilted his head to look up into Stiles’s face and Stiles brushed his hair back from his forehead.

 

 “Derek, I’ve been to so many places, I’ve seen so much…” Stiles moistened his kiss-bruised lips and then struggled up in bed, enough to reach for the bookshelf behind his head that acted as a headboard. He offered Derek a leather-bound book in faded midnight blue, worn at the edges but well cared for.

 

 Derek frowned and went to open it, but Stiles’s hand stayed the motion.

 

 “No,” Stiles said gently, “when you get home. Look at it then. My mother and grandfather made it, it’s…it’s sort of a family heirloom, I suppose.”  


 Derek shook his head. “Stiles, I can’t take this.”

 

 “It’s a loan,” Stiles said firmly, holding his hand out in refusal when Derek tried to give it back. “Bring it back with you, when you return.”

 

 So you’ll have to return, Derek couldn’t help but think he was truly saying and he kissed him more fiercely than he ever had before so he would know.

 

 

 A while later, as he swept his cloak around him and crept down the steps of Stiles’s caravan, he leaned up to whisper against his lips, “I’m coming back.”

 

 “You’re very eager to make me promises, Prince Hale,” Stiles mused, but there was a wary edge to his voice, as if he didn’t dare believe it was true.

 

 “I never make promises I can’t keep.”

 

 It was a long walk back to the castle. The city never slept, some were already up even as the sky started to glow with that subtle purple hue that signalled the encroaching dawn. Derek heard the telltale sounds of them readying for the day, the baker preparing his products, the fisherman hauling their catches off the docks but it all fell away into the lingering night as he walked.

 

 The lanterns that lined the stone bridge that stretched from the city toward the castle, toward his home were extinguished long ago, not even a lingering hum of heat or scent of burning oil remaining. The world was quiet, calm out here on this bridge. It felt like he was floating above it all, with only the smell of the water running far, far below to caress his senses like a promise.

 

 He paused on the bridge, resting his arms on the broad stone balustrade and running his fingers reverently over the worn cover of the book Stiles had given him. Stiles’s scent and the scent of his father still clung to it. This book was more precious than anything Stiles owned. All the sparkle and glamour were nothing compared to this.

 

 He carefully opened the cover to see a small portrait tucked into the jacket. It was the kind he’d seen done in shops to commemorate events such as weddings or births. It was a good one, so must’ve cost more than a week’s takings. He caressed the edges of the little rectangle, a baby, perhaps a year old with Stiles’s bright eyes and little turned up nose and a woman with the same nose holding him tight, while Stilinski the showman, younger, less lined embraced them both.

 

 _My beautiful boy, your father and I love you so much._ The note written across the back of the image was from Stiles’s mother, clearly.

 

 Derek tucked it back in carefully and flipped through the book, filled with drawings and the same neat, curling scripture. His stomach plummeted as he read the words, studied the diagrams. His thoughts roared in his head and he froze at the sight of the carefully, painfully accurate drawings of things he’d never seen put to paper before. His fingertips scanned the pages and his hands were shaking as he closed the book carefully, staring hard at the foreign scripture now.

 

 _Bestiariusz_ , cut into the worn, soft leather in the same hand. He’d scanned it before but discarded it as Stiles’s family’s lost tongue, something his brain couldn’t comprehend at first glance, now though, in hindsight…

 

 “What has your heart fluttering like a hummingbird, young nephew?” His uncle’s voice cut through the night and Derek, already on edge, whirled around, eyes wide. Had he been so worked up, had the blood been pounding so in his ears that he hadn’t noticed Peter’s approach?

 

 Peter regarded him with a raised brow and slowly came to stand beside him, resting his arms on the stone alongside the book. He stared out across the water toward the horizon where the sun was still a way off.

 

 “It’s amazing how early our senses can pick up the changes in the light, in the sky. We can sense the dawn long before the humans can,” Peter said thoughtfully, before turning his head to look at him. “Your mother and I told you to stay away from the circus because even as extraordinary as their feats of human skill are, Derek, they are still human. Even they could not comprehend what we are capable of.”

 

 He stared hard at Derek then, expression tight as the king he was, looking on Derek as his subject now, not his family, not his loved one. “You’ve seen how the people of this land look on them. Some come to see their show, yes, many do in fact, but there are still those that fear their _otherness_. It only takes a few to rally the pitchforks and chase us through the hills like feral beasts. Our ancestors built this kingdom from the ground up after being chased from our homeland centuries ago. We will not make the same mistakes as them. The humans may one day be able to accept the circus but they will never be ready for our abnormality.”

 

 Derek tore his gaze from Peter’s and looked at the cover of the bestiary. He moistened his lips, tasted Stiles on them and knew the caution his family had exorcised over the centuries had kept them alive, had let them thrive. Knew that they kept their secret for a reason, but he didn’t think he was entirely right. The initial jolt of shock and dread that had filled him on realising what the book was had settled a little the more Peter had spoken, the more Derek had realised how wrong he was.

 

 “I think people change with the times. In some places, Stiles said that the circus was welcomed without pause, without backlash. He said that for every town that welcomed them with open arms there were those that chased them out, but that those were becoming few and far between.”

 

 He thought of the woman who’d spent her life making this book. It was filled with sketches lovingly drawn, like art rather than scientific scrawl, facts and notes made like a bird lover might for the wildlife they tracked. Stiles’s mother had travelled the world, studying the supernatural with the same wide-eyed, worldly fascination her son carried even now.

 

 Maybe the world wasn’t ready for their secret yet, but some people were, Stiles was and if he could share his secrets with Stiles while they waited for the rest of the world to catch up? Well then he was sure someone as strong as Stiles could help him ready them.

 

 “What in heavens is a Stiles?” Peter asked with clear distaste and Derek couldn’t help it, he let out a little laugh, holding the book with reverence, like the wake-up call it was. He tucked it carefully inside his cloak. “His mother studied the supernatural, I think…I think the circus was her talent, her job but her studies were her passion. She indulged both, all over the world and saw…everything. So has Stiles.”

 

 Peter’s eyes narrowed. “You told him…”

 

 “I didn’t have to,” Derek said, feeling giddy with the lightneess that thought filled him with. “He knows. He knows what I am and he’s not afraid.”

 

 Beside him, Peter stiffened. “You’ve been having clandestine meetings with a circus boy and you think he knows you?”

 

 Derek didn’t rise to the bait, just answered with the truth he felt to his bones. “I think he could. I want him to.”

 

 “Derek,” Peter began again.

 

 “I want to speak to mother, about this, about _everything_ ,” Derek cut him off, “in the morning, I’ll…”

 

 He trailed off. It was like the warning sirens that signalled the floods were going off in the distance, except this wasn’t a sound made by their horns. It was sound, smell, atmosphere, _panic_ growing steadily more thick in the air as the wind changed and carried it in his direction. He and Peter both froze as it registered.

 

 Fire. Chaos. The circus.

 

  _Stiles_!

 

 By the time they got there, the tent was ablaze, the white sails turned to great flaming beacons under the red dawn and the capital was in chaos. Derek surged forward at the sight of it, the smell of burning overwhelmed his nose so that he could not pick out Stiles’s scent, so he frantically searching the faces of everyone fleeing the fire. The smoke was thick in the air, he choked and spluttered. A crowd had gathered, some to watch the pandemonium, some flying forward to help the circus workers to rescue the animals, taking hold of reins of horses and helping to haul the cages of the more dangerous animals to safety. But he saw no Stiles.

 

 “Derek!” Peter called warningly, and the unspoken order was clear. Do not make a scene, do not make what you are known. Derek gave him a single, lingering look, before bolting into the chaos.

 

 He darted down the side of the fire, avoiding the licking flames that had all-but devoured the tent, which he hoped was empty. He strained but could hear no heartbeats inside, no cries for help. He hoped that was because it had been empty, not because someone had been trapped inside. He made for the caravans.

 

 The fire seemed to have started in the tent and the smell of alcohol on the flames, when none of the circus workers entertained alcohol made him think of sabotage, but he had no time to dwell. He struggled to listen, to sense beyond the ferocity of the fire.

 

 He didn’t hear a heartbeat, he didn’t see Stiles, but a screeching, terrifying unnatural whinnying filled the night and he bolted towards it. The striped horse Stiles had called a zebra once had been caught by its lead rope on a fallen section of cage. Derek flew toward it on instinct, catching the rope by the knot beneath the beast’s jaw and laying a strong, steadying hand on its neck.

 

 “Hey,” he breathed softly, holding it tight as it struggled, eyes wide. “You’re ok. We’ll get you…” He trailed off at the sight of the body crumpled in the stall the zebra had been caught in. He dove down, keeping hold of the zebra’s rope and reaching for Stiles. He coughed and spluttered as he reached for his neck, the smoke growing thicker even as he checked for a tangible sign of life, not trusting his senses in the din.

 

 There was a heartbeat, faint, sluggish, thick with smog but there. He knew a moment of dangerous hesitation, staring at the beast, now frozen with fear and the flames coming in tighter and tighter, Stiles’s body limp and smeared with ash and soot from the open cover the horses were stabled under.

 

 At last, Derek dragged an ornate handkerchief out of his pocket. He pulled Stiles roughly upward, his body heavy and lifeless but no weight at all to Derek’s strength. He grunted even so, as he pressed his shoulder under Stiles’s weight and staggered to his feet, still keeping a grip on the zebra. It stood stock still, petrified and Derek tugged. “Come _on_ ,” he snarled, but the beast didn’t move. Derek pulled, looked around wildly at the fire as it roared higher. In a moment of panic, he roared, eyes burning, fangs flashing. The zebra jerked as if his fangs had struck flesh and bolted forward.

 

 “Stiles? _Stiles_!” Stilinski’s voice called out as they made it to the where the whole city had gathered, the fiery-haired girl coming forward to take hold of the Zebra’s makeshift halter just as Stilinski practically collided with Derek.

 

 Derek lowered Stiles carefully off his shoulder and into Stilinski’s frantic arms, spluttering and coughing and wiping smoke from his stinging eyes as Stiles’s lifeless body tilted to the ground, head lolling, face smeared black. He looked so pale, so unreal in the red sunlight.

 

 The world around him was on fire, there was madness as everyone tried to put out the flames, as people tried to tend the wounded but it was suddenly deafeningly quiet as Derek stared at him, at Stiles and willed him to move. He lay still on the cobblestones, splayed out like a man drowned and Derek had never felt so helpless in all his life.

 

 “Stiles!” Stilinski screamed, shaking his son’s shoulders.

 

 Then, suddenly, there was a firm, strong hand on his shoulder. Derek didn’t even react, didn’t turn at the feel of his mother’s presence, at the voice of his queen, not until she said, ever so softly, “bring him.”

 

 Derek jerked to face her, frowning at her unreadable expression. “The capital’s infirmary will be full tonight. Bring him to the castle, he’ll have more of a chance with us.”

 

*

 

 Derek supposed the bittersweet thing about tragedy was that it rendered all men equal. His uncle and mother, the king and queen, and Stilinski the showman of the circus that had shocked the world were as equals now. Covered in soot and grime from the flying flames, it was hard to tell what positions separated them.

 

 Derek’s uncle and mother stood close by as the physician, who was kept on hand mainly for show or for the human members of the household, worked over Stiles’s smoke-damaged lungs. He’d been spared any burns but his breathing was laboured and Deaton worked quietly on a medicine for Stiles to inhale as his unconsciousness stretched out further and further into the new day.

 

 At some point Peter had been pulled away to deal with the culprit of the fire. Apparently it had been an accident, one of the drunken sots had been loitering, had stumbled trying to foolishly light his pipe and it had all escalated before he could stop it.

 

 Derek thought absently, as he watched Deaton continue to burn the eye-watering medicine for Stiles to breathe in, that the capital had Deaton’s revolutionary medicinal practices to thank for growing so wealthy. The infirmary the McCalls ran under his tutelage had the highest success rates on the continent and Derek had no fear for the other circus performers and people that had worked to rescue them, only the man on his childhood bed, who still had yet to wake.

 

 “Come, Mr Stilinski, a clean body is a clean mind,” his mother said gently to Stilinski, squeezing his shoulder gently. “We’ll get you fed and washed up before your son wakes.” Stilinski seemed almost catatonic, moving without really reacting, without tearing his gaze from Stiles.

 

 Derek swallowed thickly around the lump in his throat. “I’ll watch him, Sir. I won’t leave his side.”

 

 Stilinski blinked as if coming awake from a dream and his eyes roved his son a final time, before lingering on the place Derek’s hands grasped Stiles’s wrist, at the bestiary beneath them that he evidently knew too well. He stared at where dark tendrils of pain were drawn away from his son into Derek’s body and it was also something he apparently recognised.

 

 “I believe that,” Stilinski said, a man of few words, so unlike his son, but with no less sincerity.

 

*

 

 “Hey…” The hoarse, haggard voice cut through the doze Derek had dropped unwillingly into. He jerked his head up from where it had slumped on the bedside and blinked suddenly awake at the sight of Stiles’s weary, beautiful face.

 

 “You didn’t sneak me into your bed, did you Prince Derek?” Stiles mused croakily.

 

 A disbelieving, exasperated smile tugged at Derek’s lips as he gasped out a laugh he was still too shocked and relieved to truly feel. “Your father put you there, with the King and Queen watching. He understands the needs that… _pack_ have.”

 

 Stiles closed his eyes but gave a tired smile. “Scandalous, the debauchery of royalty…”

 

 Derek squeezed Stiles’s hand tightly, tapping his fingers lest he slip into unconsciousness. “How are you feeling?”

 

 Stiles rolled his head weakly to pin him with that stare, the one that asked if Derek was stupid.

 

 Derek smiled a little more honestly now, because Stiles was feeling well enough to be himself, at least. He didn’t lessen his grip on his hand, however. “The man who burned the circus down, he did it by accident, but he’ll be punished for his crimes.”

 

 Stiles frowned. “Fairly?”

 

 “We aren’t savages,” Derek said tightly, even though in his rage right then, he wanted to tear the man to pieces for his stupidity. It hadn’t cost any lives, heavens above, but so many were injured and not just the circus performers, but some people who’d tried to help and some businesses that had been closest to the fire had been caught by the heat. Lives had been irrevocably changed. He definitely wasn’t ready to rule yet, to see beyond his heart and think clearly. He had so much to learn.

 

 “No,” Stiles said, fingers curling under Derek’s touching the surface of the book beneath their joined hands and somehow gripping Derek’s hand too. “You’re werewolves.” There was no trace of fear in his face, only awe, only affection for the sight of Derek by his sickbed, with him even when the glamour of the lights had burned out.

 

 Derek had so much to learn and he wanted Stiles to teach him, to learn at his side.

 

 Stiles licked his lips, chapped from dryness, the proximity to the heat but already healing with painfully human slowness.

 

 “I suppose, if I’m surrounded by riches, I must be in your castle?”

 

 Derek’s lips twitched. “In my bed, you were right, even in jest.”

 

 Stiles’s eyebrows lifted. “So you spoke to your mother and uncle? Or did you really sneak me in here under the cover of night?”

 

 “Like I said, your father put you there. It’s been three days since the fire and it’s daylight now,” Derek said deadpanned. “But yes, we talked some. We’ll talk more, no doubt.” Slowly, slowly, Derek drew his fingers out of Stiles’s grasp.

 

 “You took my pain,” Stiles said, not seeming surprised. He lifted a slightly shaking hand to look at his skin, as if he would see the place that Derek drawn his pain from. Even through his weariness and discomfort Derek could see his awe, his intrigue and wondered how many questions Stiles would have for him, once he was well.

 

 “I read about it,” Stiles continued, coughing with a wince the more he spoke, “didn’t…didn’t realise it’d feel like this.”

 

 Derek held a hand out to rest on his chest as his body shook with great heaving coughs, a silent entreaty to rest his lungs and throat. He reached for the bowl of medicine Deaton had left and brought it over. “Here, inhale this, it’ll help. Deaton’s work is like witchcraft.”

 

 Stiles quirked a brow, even as his chest heaved. “ _Like_ witchcraft?” He inhaled heavily, sending his lungs into a spasm of uncontrollable coughs. Derek leant in, hand resting on Stiles’s back between his shoulder blades, dragging the pain the spasms were causing until they at last subsided and the medicine began to do its work. It’d work better with Stiles able to inhale deeper breaths, allow his lungs to expand fully with it, Deaton had said..

 

  “He’s a druid, not a witch, though some wouldn’t know the difference,” Derek said carefully.

 

 After a few deep, cautious breaths, Stiles managed shakily, “I know the difference.”

 

 Derek nodded. “I know.” When he was sure Stiles’s breathing had steadied, he drew back, shrugging off his jacket. Stiles’s slips parted around a question that Derek held his hand out to silence. “Rest, just…don’t talk for a while, as difficult as that is.”

 

 Stiles frowned but he didn’t seem too displeased with Derek’s teasing, just confused.

 

 “I need to show you something,” Derek said, “I want to show you, tell you everything. We’ve got…we’ve got so much to say, I don’t even know where to start, so I’ll start with this.”

 

 He stepped back and to the side, standing at the end of the bed and regarded Stiles carefully as he stripped to the waist. He toed off his shoes and then loosened his trousers, just enough that they hung on his hips. He heard Stiles’s heart thud a little faster, saw his cheeks flush in his sickly complexion.

 

 Derek hesitated just a moment, fighting a lifetime of secrecy and subdued fear, before he let the change take him. His body stretched and snapped, twisting unnaturally, curving forward and shucking his loosened clothing as he did so. He braced himself on the foot of the bed and watched as his fingers changed into large black paws. When he lifted his head, if he stared hard enough, he saw the black wolf reflected in Stiles’s honey-hued eyes.

 

 Stiles was staring, his gaze wide with wonder and astonishment but no fear. Not a scant inch. He’d obviously never seen this up close, in real life. It was likely something he’d only heard about in stories from his mother. But he was seeing it now, as real as the daylight streaming in through the window.

 

 Derek gave him a moment, let him look his fill before he climbed onto the end of the bed. He realised, belatedly that it might appear threatening, standing over Stiles’s wounded body like this and so he wagged his tail gently, hoping Stiles would understand.

 

 “Oh my God,” Stiles breathed, voice still hoarse. He carefully set the bowl of medicine on the side stand, the effort laboured but steady, before he reached for Derek. His long fingers, usually strong enough to hold his body up a hundred feet in the air sank into Derek’s fur, into the softest strands of obsidian silk and slid up. He caressed every inch of slender muscle that could rip him to pieces, foreign and unnatural, yet Stiles was not afraid. He was in awe.

 

 “You’re incredible,” Stiles managed, with the same reverence Derek had offered him in the intimate closeness of Stiles’s makeshift home.

 

 Slowly, Derek crept forward, going low on his belly without a care for his appearance until he was sprawled across the grand bed, across Stiles’s legs, warming his healing body.

 

 Stiles stroked his muzzle, his ears with that same look of wide-eyed wonder that betrayed his thirst for the world despite how much he’d seen. It also betrayed his need for belonging and Derek ached to wrap himself around him as far as he could go.

 

 Unable to articulate it in this shape, but unwilling to lose the gentle intimacy, Derek brushed his nose against Stiles’s cheek, his neck and when Stiles’s arms enveloped his neck, knotting in the thick fur at his scruff, he nuzzled in close and just breathed.

 

*

 

 When the circus was rebuilt, it filled Derek with a bittersweet feeling to see the last of the white sails of the tent. It was a building now, with foundations that offered the animals and performers room to grow and flourish. It was a more permanent home to protect them all through the coming winter and the next, and the next. It’s was a sign of their permanent fixture and although that was bittersweet as well, Stiles had relayed to Derek the relief from his family at having somewhere to call home without giving up the life they loved.

 

 It was Hale money that rebuilt it, a charity that Stilinski had hated and his jaw had ticked when Stiles had jokingly suggested he consider it a future dowry. In spite of this though, he hadn’t been able to argue with the security it offered his family, his son, the business of making happiness his wife had built.

 

 It was a place of grandeur, with lights and glamour and crisp red dressings with gold trim to celebrate the vibrancy of its performers. No one could argue with its magnificence and it could seat hundreds more than the tent ever could. The fact that it was still open to people of all classes was what had saved it for Stilinski, Derek had thought.

 

 In the few years since the fire, the circus had become an attraction that people had travelled the world to see, now they knew where to find them. They had become the gem of the country and Derek wondered if one day, this celebration of differentness would one day touch the entire world. Maybe then it would be safe to be what they were without fear. Until then, he considered himself one of the luckiest men alive.

 

 He knew one day, when he took the throne that Stiles would have to take his final bow, give up performing but he thought by the time that day came, it would be long in the future, when Stiles was ready to trade this circus for that of the castle, one that would allow him to help the less fortunate smile in other ways.

 

 The idea of ruling, when his mother and uncle finally stepped down was still a daunting task but he was beginning to realise how much opportunity there was to do good along with that responsibility. Stiles and his family had brought such happiness with nothing but talent and determination. He had resources in abundance that he could not waste, not now. Derek knew how much good he could do now, and he thought that was because of Stiles.

 

 Derek was busier now than he had ever been, trying to _use_ his position as best he could. Stiles always returned to his bed when the lights of the circus dimmed for the night, but still Derek tried to make at least one performance a week. There was nothing quite like watching Stiles fly.

 

 Stiles didn’t scan the crowds for him, he was too professional for that, but whenever he took his final bow with the others, then he searched for Derek. Those bright brown eyes that held the magic of the entire show found Derek’s gaze in a sea of applause every time.

 

 Now, like every other time, Stiles made a beeline toward him. As he drew closer to the crowds, Derek’s guard moved to envelop him, to wrap around him as if their lives depend on it. They knew, the world knew and while the public were confused at the freedom the prince’s betrothed was allowed, it was out of concern, not distaste. They could be forgiven for not knowing Derek’s senses allowed him to protect Stiles in ways they could not imagine, how he watched for even the slightest hint of malice from the surrounding people toward the man he loved.

 

 Still, the guard made a good show of normalcy and they guided Stiles through the crowds until he was in front of Derek. Stiles’s breathless smile incited one from Derek’s lips. Without need for words, Derek took his hand and together they allowed the guard to usher them out into the cool quiet night.

 

 They walked back in comfortable silence, with the guard a few yards behind, Stiles tired and Derek content to listen to the merriment of those returning home from the show. The stars were a thick smattering of fireflies in the midnight blue above and the castle a glistening beacon in the distance. The long stone bridge was an arm connecting one world to the next and the lanterns burned brightly along it. It was on his mother and uncle’s orders, their way of blessing, like leaving a light in the window so they may find their way home together.

 

 It was as cold as the first night they had met and Stiles pulled the long coat he liked to call his _prince’s costume_ around himself tighter to stave off the chill. His nose and cheeks were pinked from the cold and he was exhausted in that way that practically vibrated with satisfaction. He was happy, it was a tangible thing and Derek stroked his thumb across Stiles’s in a subtle, wordless whisper of a caress.

 

 “What?” Stiles asked with a mischievous smile, stopping as he met Derek’s eyes. There was so much love there in that gaze Derek couldn’t offer any words to reciprocate. He just shook his head, wondering at the world they were building every day and where it would take them.

 

 If the sight of the tent that night had been like sails in the night sky, then Stiles had been the moon, the stars, the force in the breeze carrying him home from where he’d been adrift for so long. Now, as he stood there on the bridge, he was filled with a rush of need to let him know exactly how much he meant to Derek, more than any words could offer, any official title. He hooked his fingers behind the column of Stiles’s pale neck and drew him in so that their lips could meet.

 

THE END


End file.
